I have discovered that
chickens do quite a bit more
than drop eggs. They have
other virtues as well. I suspect
for those who have
raised chickens the novelty
has worn off a bit. But for
me the experience is new
enough that every day
seems to present us with
interesting occurrences.
A friend bequeathed us
with a fancy metal, two tiered
nest box `condo.’
About a week before we expected
the `girls’ to start
laying I filled each box with
fresh cedar shavings. Cedar
is supposed to be a bit more
mite-retardant than pine,
according to the chicken experts
I consulted. Our first
clutch of eggs appeared
when we were away. Our
chicken minder discovered
the eggs and left a piece of
white paper stuck in the
door for us to see when we
returned. The message was
clear: ``Eggs!’’
Our neighbor took them
home where she and her
family enjoyed what I suspect
was some delicious
French toast. I had some
myself this morning and
can say without any sense
of false pride that homemade
bread soaked in fresh
organic eggs is about as
tasty as it gets.
Since starting this husbandry
project I have discovered,
as is the case with
just about everything, that
there are as many ways of
raising chickens as there
are chicken raisers. As my
close friends know I am not
one to gab much. At most
parties or social gatherings
I tend to hug the wall closest
to the either the darkest
wall or nearest escape
route.
I am not one to go out of
my way to ``make’’ idle conversation.
Oddly enough, I
find myself jumping at the
chance to engage friends
and neighbors in chicken
discussions in the oddest of
places.
For instance, I saw a
friend and neighbor at the
concert the other night and
leaped out of my seat to run
down the aisle to ask her
about her chickens. Are
they laying? Do you incarcerate
them for the winter
or do you let them out? How
do you keep their water
from freezing? Etc.? We
chatted a bit about tactics
and strategies and then she
said, with a slight hint of
bemused exasperation, that
she was in the market for
some intelligent chickens. I
suggested that there are no
chicken Rhodes scholars
and that chickens will be
chickens. Given my firm
adherence to evolutionary
theory, I suspect chickens
are about as intellectually
capable as they need be.
As I was leaving the gym
one morning I bumped into
another friend who has
been raising chickens for
quite some time. She had to
stand there in the cold, gym
bag in hand, while I queried
her about her cold
weather practices.
A wonderful and very
generous person, she offered
up the information
graciously. I settled into my
car and headed home feeling
a bit more comfortable
about my methods — and
my instincts.
This afternoon, weather
permitting, I will nail on
the siding to the winter entryway
to the hen house I
framed last week. I picked
up the lumber yesterday
and, lo and behold, the
neighbor from whom I
bought the rough hewn
lumber passed on some
chicken raising info he had
gleaned from his mother
who has raised them for
years.
The primary topic was
the necessity of plugging up
any openings that might allow
a draft to chill the girls
while enjoying their beauty
sleep.
My sheltie Gabby and
the chickens seem to be getting
on famously. The first
few days she barked and
they scattered. Now they
pay her no mind at all. Unfortunately,
she’s a bit too
enamored of their droppings
and will spend an inordinate
of time following
in their wake on the days
we let them out to free
range a bit.
The other day, while I
was working in one of the
gardens, Gabby was snoozing
in her favorite spot on
the hill while the chickens
pecked the ground around
her foraging for their protein
supplements. I wish
we could find ways of
achieving such peaceful intra-
species accommodations.
